CHAPTER

26

No enemy was yet in sight when Antonil ordered Veldaren’s city guard and stationed soldiers to arm themselves for battle. Their foes would arrive that night; he was certain of it. And as the clouds deepened, bringing rain in from the north, he could not shake the feeling they were borne on an unnatural wind. Come nightfall he stood above the western gate, eyes to the distant King’s Forest, as the few hundred men under his command joined him on the wall.

“What happens if this army doesn’t show?” Sergan asked beside him as the soft rain fell.

“Then I’ll claim it was an exercise,” Antonil said. “Gods know we could use the practice.”

When the symbol of the Sun erupted above the city, only to be consumed by the Spider, murmurs spread all across the wall. Antonil watched, a foul feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.

“What does it mean?” Sergan asked him as they both peered up at the sky.

“It means exactly what it looks like it means,” Antonil said. “The Spider Guild’s rising up against the Sun Guild. Of course they’d pick tonight to do it, while not a single city guard will be out there to stop them. Tonight’s going to be ugly, Sergan. While we fight our battle at the walls, there will be another raging inside them.”

“Try not to think on it,” Sergan said, pointing north, and he was hardly the only one to notice. “The scum of the city can butcher each other to their heart’s content; we have our own enemy to worry about.”

From the forest the army emerged. At first they were distant dots of gray, blobs of a different color from the rest of the night. As the army continued to march, coming closer, those on the wall better saw their armor, their drawn weapons. They carried no torches, for they had no need of them, given their racial ability to see in darkness as well as daylight. Antonil envied the ability as his own men struggled to keep their torches lit against the rain. Even from such a great distance, they could easily hear the thrumming of drums and a chorus of war chants sung by deep voices.

“No wagons or catapults,” Sergan said, squinting in an attempt to see them better. “But if they’re coming out of a forest, they’ll have had plenty of choices for a solid battering ram. Unless they built a cover for it, though, our archers will tear whoever’s carrying it to pieces.”

Antonil nodded, keeping unspoken Dieredon’s fears about what the necromancer could do. Up and down the wall he heard his men calling out, and he was proud of how much was in mockery of the approaching army. The fear was there, hidden but controlled. So long as it stayed that way, Veldaren had a chance.

“What the…?” Sergan asked, voice trailing off as he pointed dumbly.

From deep within the forest sailed thin dots of deep-purple fire, bursting from the trees in a direct flight toward Veldaren’s skies. The men around him braced their shields or lowered themselves to take cover, for it seemed as if they were projectiles… but then they arced, and shifted, continuing to fly without dropping. Antonil stared along with all the others, baffled as to what approached.

“Sir?” Sergan asked, but Antonil didn’t know what to say. The shapes were growing closer, and lit so brightly by the purple fire, he swore he could almost make out…

And then the screams hit. A thousand of them, horrific wails, as if the tortured souls of the very Abyss were given a chance to let loose all their torment and agony. The blistering cacophony descended upon them from above. Antonil felt his heart skip in his chest, felt terror clawing at his throat. There was no reason for it, no rationale; he simply felt terror, helpless, crippling terror, and he knew he was not the only one. All around him, his soldiers cowered along the wall, holding their ears or covering their eyes.

“Fight it,” Antonil screamed, trying to muster strength against this supernatural horror. “Fight it, fight it!”

Slowly he felt the fear ebbing, and he looked up to see the orbs flying directly above them. They were skulls, he realized, those of the dead the army had butchered on its march toward the capital. Their flesh was peeled away but for the tiniest of bits that still clung to the bone, flapping in the ethereal fire that burned and burned. The skulls took circular flight over the gate, some dipping down low to soar mere feet above his soldiers as if to toy with them and their fear. Others looped into the city, sending their horrific screeches piercing through Veldaren’s streets.

Through sheer will Antonil rose to his feet, and he banged his sword against his shield in a vain attempt to counter the wailing.

“On your feet,” he screamed to his men, and he pushed through the ranks, striking his shield again and again. “On your feet, you cowards. Going to piss yourselves over a little screaming? It’s just a damn trick, now on your feet!”

Slowly his men returned to their senses. Antonil’s heart felt as if it were racing a hundred miles a minute, but the fear was receding, the screams no longer carrying the same edge. Up and down the wall he continued, calling to his men, commanding them to stand. It felt hopeless, as for every man he convinced to stand, two more remained whimpering, but he had to try. Lightning cracked above, and glancing up, he saw that the fire of the skulls had dimmed. As the orc army continued its approach, the skulls winked out one by one, falling lifeless to the ground, where they shattered on the stone streets and walls.

It was as if a vise had been removed from his throat. Those who had cowered now stood, embarrassed, angry. Antonil slapped men on their backs, still shouting, barely aware of what he said and knowing his men would not truly hear, either. The tone was what mattered, the force of his words, the power of his conviction. They would live. They would fight. They would win.

“They better hope they have more than cheap tricks if they want to get inside these walls,” Sergan said as Antonil returned to the wall above the western gate. Antonil looked to the field and road outside the gate, where the army was massing. With the dark and the rain, he couldn’t begin to count. His best estimate put them at several thousand. Solid numbers, but unless they had ladders and rams, the walls would still hold.

A hand tapped his shoulder, and Antonil realized Sergan was trying to get his attention while also pointing to the sky.

“Looks like our friend is back,” Sergan said.

Sonowin looped above the city, the white of the horse’s body and wings a startling contrast to the dark storm.

“You’re in charge,” Antonil said as the horse looped lower and lower toward the nearby city district. “I’ll be back shortly, I promise.”

“Don’t take too long,” Sergan called after him as Antonil descended the stairs. “I’d hate for you to miss all the fun!”

From his lower perspective, Antonil did the best he could to watch where the flying horse landed. He counted the homes as he passed them, trying to remember where he’d last seen the white beast fly. Finally at one of the alleys on his left he turned in, hoping he’d guessed correctly. Being away from his men at such a crucial time upset him to no end, but the elf would not come flying in amid the rain and the chaos without good reason.

Come bringing good news, Antonil pleaded in his mind as he stopped halfway through the alley, which was disappointingly empty. Letting out a sigh, he started to move, then heard a whistle from above. Looking up, Antonil chuckled, then lifted his sword in a salute. From the rooftop leaped Dieredon, landing lightly on his feet.

“Greetings, Dieredon,” Antonil said as he pulled off his helmet.

“Greetings to you as well, Guard Captain,” Dieredon said as he took a step back and then kneeled in respect. His long hair was wet and sticking to his face, and he looked about as haggard as Antonil felt. “Though I fear greetings are all I may offer you.”

It took little imagination to understand what the elf could mean. Antonil pointed toward the west wall as the distant army of orcs let out a great communal roar.

“We can’t defeat them on our own,” Antonil shouted to be heard over the din. “Where is our aid?”

Dieredon shook his head, and the softest hint of sadness pulled at his features.

“The Ekreissar will not aid you,” he said. “We have been forbidden. Ceredon insists this is a minor skirmish, and nothing more. We are not the keepers of man.”

“Minor skirmish?” Antonil asked. “What about the necromancer traveling with them? You’re the one who said he was dangerous, that he might bring down our walls all on his own.”

Another communal roar washed over the city, louder, closer.

“I know.” Dieredon said. “Forgive me, Antonil. I will watch, and I will pray. Whoever started this war will not go unpunished.”

The elf whistled, and Antonil glanced up to see Sonowin landing atop the nearby roof, wings fluttering to flick off the building rain. Dieredon bowed one last time and then leaped, kicked off the side of the building, then twisted to catch the side so he might pull himself up. Antonil watched him mount the horse, feet rooted to the ground until at last the elf took off into the dark night, quickly vanishing amid the storm. Once Dieredon was gone, he felt free to let out how he truly felt.

“Damn it all!” Antonil shouted, slamming his mailed fist into a wall. They were alone now. The mockery of the skulls showed they faced no normal army, yet their walls of wood and stone would have to hold. Still shaking his head, he stormed back to the gate, muttering curses. Upon arriving, he saw that the ground forces were still terribly thin.

“Where the bloody Abyss are Lady Gemcroft’s mercenaries?” he cried to no one in particular. With so many on the wall, only two dozen stood before the solid wood-and-metal gates, the most Antonil could spare. He’d expected several hundred to join him. It seemed Alyssa had different ideas. Did she plan on keeping them with her at her home? What did it matter if the whole city burned so long as her mansion endured? Antonil was used to such thinking from the highborn, but he’d hoped for better from her. Apparently he’d been wrong.

“What, are we not good enough for you?” a familiar voice shouted over the din.

Antonil turned to see Tarlak pushing his way through the soldiers so he could hurry down the stairs of the wall, his yellow robes looking ridiculous contrasted with the black and blue of the night. For some reason it made Antonil smile, and eased his anger and stress.

“Forgive me,” Antonil said. “I didn’t think a wizard for hire would be the most reliable of defenders.”

“Are you kidding, we’re the most reliable of all,” Tarlak said, closing the distance and offering Antonil his hand. “Though we need to work on the ‘for hire’ part. So far as I know, we’re not getting paid…”

“Later,” Antonil said. “Are you alone?”

“Del and Brug are up there,” Tarlak said, jerking a thumb toward the top of the wall. “Both should prove more useful than you might expect. Well, Delysia will be, anyway. What is it you want me to do?”

Antonil stared dumbly for a moment, then shrugged.

“I’ve never commanded a wizard before,” he said. “I don’t even know what all you can do.”

“Think more in concepts, then. Defense? Offense? Walls, gates, fire, ice, what?”

Antonil gestured to the wall, and the chorus of war chants and drums on the other side.

“Orcs bad, humans good, do what you think is best. Is that basic enough?”

Tarlak snapped his fingers, and a bit of fire sparked from them.

“Kill as many as I can,” he said, grinning. “Got it.”

Despite himself, Antonil smiled.

“I think we all have those same orders,” he said.

“If you two are done sucking each other off, there’s a battle to fight up here,” Sergan shouted.

Antonil secured his shield on his back, then hurried up the stone steps to the wall, the wizard following just behind. Upon reaching the top, Antonil overlooked the thousands of orcs, who were preparing a charge. They looked so similar to men, just more muscular and broad-shouldered. The shade of their skin was most noticeable, a pale likeness of flesh, as if all color and life had been drained from their bodies. Some wore crude armor, but they were few, with the majority wearing war paint, skulls, and straps of leather. Each orc looked capable of handling two men at once in battle, and given how they outnumbered them so terribly…

Tarlak nudged him with his elbow, pulling him from such thoughts.

“Behind the army,” Tarlak said, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard. “What is that?”

A thin line formed the very rear of the orc forces. It was difficult to tell, but they did not appear to be orcs. As to what they could be, Antonil had no guess. In the center of the line, though, was a man or woman clothed in solid black, not even their face visible due to a heavy hood.

“That’d be the necromancer leading them,” Antonil whispered back.

The wizard let out a grunt.

“Interesting,” he muttered. “I might not kill as many orcs as I’d like if whoever that is out there decides to come play as well.”

Antonil clapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re like any other soldier now,” he said. “Do your duty, and we’ll be fine.”

“If you say so, but don’t hold any delusions about being my commanding officer…”

He stopped, unable to be heard due to the great cry the orcs let loose while simultaneously smacking their weapons together and stomping their feet. Thousands, Antonil saw, so many thousands, and with another cry they surged toward the city.

“The gates better hold,” Antonil muttered so that only Tarlak could hear.

“Don’t see any reason why they won’t,” the wizard replied. “What are the orcs going to do, beat it down with their bare hands?”

“Seems like it. Here they come. Arrows, loose!”

The rows of archers on the walls released arrow after arrow as the army of orcs came barreling forward. A great cry accompanied the charge, deep, throaty roars easily drowning out any shouts of pain from those brought low by the shafts. Antonil watched the arrows fly, taking grim satisfaction in watching the wounded drop, quickly trampled by the orcs who came stampeding after. Volley after volley they fired. With so many in the fields before them there was no need to aim, only release as fast as possible.

Beside him, Tarlak rubbed his hands together, nearly overcome with glee.

“Just a little bit of fire along the walls and we’ll all be heading back to bed within the hour,” he said. That glee vanished when a red dot appeared from the back line overlooking the battle. Tarlak cocked his head, watching as it grew, and then his eyes spread wide.

“Oh shit,” he said, then turned about to scream at the dozen soldiers bunched up before the gates. “Get out of the way! Move!”

Antonil turned back, then saw that the red dot was a roaring inferno of fire surging toward the city in a great beam. It burned through the orc army, consuming bodies as if they were oil-soaked cloth, and then slammed into the city gate. The beam never slowed. The wood exploded, shrapnel shooting in all directions. The soldiers behind the gate screamed as the molten rock flowed over them, melting through their armor and shields. Their dying screams were terrible but mercifully short, death claiming them swiftly. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the beam vanished, leaving only a trail of smoke and scorched earth.

The way was clear, and the orcs let out a great cheer, not caring about their losses.

“Down, now, form a line!” Sergan screamed. “We can’t let them in!”

Antonil stared in shock, knowing he should act but unable to. The way was clear. Just like that, all their walls, all their preparations, meant nothing. The way was clear.

“Snap out of it,” Tarlak shouted as he joined the surge down the steps. Antonil grabbed him before he could get away.

“You protect us from him,” he said. “We can fight the orcs, but that foe is beyond us.”

Tarlak paused, then nodded. That done, they both rushed to the ground, Antonil taking his place in the center of the formation of shields and swords. Through the blackened stone and broken pieces of the gate, they watched the orc army come barreling in with wild abandon. Antonil spared a glance over his shoulder, hoping for a miracle, but hundreds of reinforcements were not marching down the street to save them. They were alone.

Thanks, Alyssa, he thought bitterly. You’re our city’s savior.

“Hold!” Sergan shouted from the front line, a wall of shields on either side of him. “Hold!”

The walls nearly empty but for a few scattered archers, the remainder of the forces gathered to hold the gate, a mere four hundred against thousands. The challenge was overwhelming, the narrowness of the entryway their only hope.

“They broke our gate,” Antonil shouted, mere seconds before the army slammed into them, and the bloody chaos began. “Let’s build a new one with their dead!”